I Almost Lost You
by Moffat Ripped Out My Soul
Summary: It's been 3 years since Sherlock "died", and John has decided that he can't take anymore of his misery. Ignorant of the fact that Sherlock is still alive, John makes an attempt on his life. Again. But this time, he almost gets what he wished for. NOTES: Slight Johnlock. It's only T because of attempted suicide. Afterlife.


**A/N - Hi! The name is Tori! This was a nice little plot bunny that was eating at me for a while, so I wrote it down. It's a short little one-shot, nothing special, but I hope you enjoy it anyhow!**

**This is also not my first Fanfic. Review and tell me what you honestly think! **

**And, as always, enjoy!**

****x

As he sat on his bed, revolver in hand, John Watson contemplated suicide. Not for the first time, either. The first time was on the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, and he had only just been saved, due to the fact that Mycroft thought it best to check up on him that day.  
The first time was because he had lost his best friend; the only man he had ever trusted explicitly and with his life. The first time, Mycroft had run in to stop him from ending his meaningless life. This time, this day, the third year since he had lost his best mate, the man he loved, he ensured that Mycroft would not be there to intervene.  
John made his decision quickly, and held the gun under his chin. He clicked the single bullet into place, and, palms sweating, pulled the trigger.  
Exactly 30 seconds later, the door to 221b Baker Street slammed open.

xx

When John next opened his eyes, he was standing in a cold, white room. Only, it wasn't a room, and he wasn't standing on anything particular. He simply was.  
Just a few feet away, stood a tall man, a man whom John was sure he recognised, however, he didn't look as he last remembered him. The man turned around and immediately, instinctively, John took a step back.  
"John," The man drawled in a deep baritone, as if disappointed.  
"Sh-Sherlock?" John wracked his brain for any reason why Sherlock would be here, further still, why he would be blonde.  
"Yes."  
"I'm-I'm dead? It worked? There's an - an afterlife?" John stammered out, perplexed. "I stopped believing, after you... After you died."  
The other man, Sherlock, let out a hearty laugh; a laugh that John had not heard for three years. A laugh John had believed he would never hear again. Sherlock studied John for a brief moment, and John stole that moment to take in as much of Sherlock's face as possible; for fear he may never see it again.  
"No, John, you're not dead," Sherlock paused, contemplating his next words. "Well, not in the sense you believe," he held up a hand as John opened his mouth to question this. "You're between lives. As am I, John. I am only a part of Sherlock. I am a part of Sherlock, yet I am one of the most important aspects of him.  
"I am the part of Sherlock that truly believed that you loved him, with all of your heart. When Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart's, part of him did die; me. I was replaced by the idea that you would forever hate him and never forgive him for what he had done to you, John. I was replaced with fear. Fear that you never would allow him back into your life, once he was finished."  
"Finished with what?" The words spilled out of John's mouth so quickly, he hadn't even the time to think about them.  
"Destroying Moriarty's web. Killing off the strands one at a time." Sherlock explained. "It was strenuous work, John. He estimated it would take him approximately 3 years."  
John gasped sharply, only now realizing what he had done. "Three years?" He coughed out. "It was three years today... God, no! What have I done?" John screamed. "Tell me, please just tell me there is a way to go back. Tell me there's a way to go home," He pleaded.  
Sherlock nodded his head and stuck his hands into the pockets of his long coat. "You can go home. When you pulled the trigger, your palms were so sweaty, the gun slipped downwards and you shot yourself in the left lung. After that, let us just say that big brother has eyes everywhere."  
"Thank God. Thank everything. Thank you," John closed his eyes and lay his head in his hands. In the short time he had been there, he had somehow ended up sitting next to Sherlock on a sort of bench. John reached over to Sherlock and hugged him. He buried his face in his coat and breathed in the familiar scent of his love. And, for the first time since the funeral, John allowed himself to cry.

xxx

John was numb. So unbearably numb. He felt as if his chest had the weight of a damned elephant sitting on top of it. When he tried to open his eyes, he was met with a searing white light. John crinkled his brow and shook his head; he felt hands encasing his own.  
A moment later, John heard a soft, yet strong voice. "John." He heard the voice sigh, and opened his eyes.  
"Sh'lock?" John shook his head to clear out the haze, then turned his head just so, and met the piercing green-blue gaze of his Sherlock.  
"Shh," Sherlock mumbled. "You don't have to say anything, John. I'm back and I am never leaving you again. Not after the stunt you pulled. I almost lost you, John." Sherlock sounded particularly sincere, not a trace of sarcasm to be detected. However out of character this may have been, John's hazy mind disregarded it in favour for the idea that Sherlock was by his side.  
"Could say... same to you. And, yes, I do... I have to tell you some'thin'." John muttered, finding it to be greatly difficult to utter those simple words. "Don't ever, ever, do that to me again."  
Sherlock gave a fair-natured laugh that reached his eyes, looked John straight in the eyes and deadpanned, "I could say the same to you."  
"Mhm..." John mumbled, eyes beginning to drift shut.  
Sherlock took one hand from John's and replaced it on top of his head, stroking John's hair. "Go to sleep, John, you can yell at me all you like once you're out of this blasted ICU."  
A hint of a smile graced John's face, and Sherlock couldn't help himself. He leaned down and pressed a gentle, yet compassionate kiss to John's lips.


End file.
